


better

by pipistrelle



Series: there is a season [8]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Family, Fever, Flu, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flu comes to Winding Circle. Lark has four sick kids to take care of, and of course it gets worse before it gets better. </p><p>Just a big domestic fluffy sickfic thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between "Briar's Book" and The Circle Opens.

“Briar,” Lark called. “Will you come out here, please?”

Briar set aside the wire he’d been carefully spooling around the trunk of his _shakkan_ and trotted out of his room into the kitchen. Lark was standing with one hand on her hip, the other on Tris’ forehead as the girl huddled miserably in a chair, sniffling and sneezing into Lark’s handkerchief.

Briar let out a low whistle. “You look like you been trampled by the Duke’s Guard,” he told Tris. Her entire face was flushed red, and her eyes were watering so badly she’d had to take off her spectacles, so the glare she directed at him was more a squint than anything else. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’b sick, stupid,” Tris said scornfully, and started sneezing.

Lark made a soft disapproving noise and let her hand fall from the girl’s forehead. “You’re running a bit of a temperature, too,” she told Tris. To Briar she said, “Will you fetch Rosie’s cold syrup? And the willowbark tea, please.”

Briar puffed out his chest with pride. Rosethorn was on a three-day tour of the farms to the west of Winding Circle, and had left him to look after her workroom while she was gone. He darted into the familiar room and brought out the jars Lark had asked for, setting them down on the table far enough away from Tris that the unhappy flickerings of lightning gathering in her hair wouldn’t strike them. “You know,” he said brightly, “I bet you wouldn’t get the sniffles if you didn’t stand on the wall all night gettin’ soaked in every storm that passes by.”

“Shut up or go away,” Tris groaned. “My head hurts and you’re not helping.”

“This will help.” Lark poured a measure of a sticky golden syrup from one of the jars into a mug and handed it to Tris. “Drink that, then bed. Briar will bring you a cup of willowbark tea.” Briar opened his mouth to protest that he had his own work to do and no time to be nursemaiding sniffly merchant brats, but Lark fixed him with a look and added, “I know he won’t mind helping to take care of a mate who’s sick.”

It was strange, Briar thought as he slouched in his chair, surrendering. Rosethorn could get you to do what she wanted by putting the fear of her wrath into you -- Briar had seen it work on grown men and women, mage and mundane alike. It was impossible to fear Lark, but she had a way of getting you to do as she wanted, too, and one that he wasn’t wary of. He’d learned most of Rosethorn’s tricks, but Lark could still get round him without much effort. Every time it happened, it came as a surprise.

Tris choked down the medicine and set down the mug with a shudder of disgust. “Don’t care what Briar does,” she grumbled. She slid off the chair and blinked, swaying; Briar thought she might fall, but she shook her head and dragged herself up the stairs to her room.

“Poor thing,” Lark sighed. “She’s the most sensitive of all of you, I think.”

“Yeah, sensitive as a prickly pear,” Briar snorted.

“Now that’s no way to talk,” Lark said. It sounded like scolding, but her faint frown was more concerned than angry. “With Rosie gone, you’re the healer of the house. It won’t do to make her feel worse.”

* * *

Tris stayed in bed the rest of that day and the next. Sandry went to visit her after supper, and was sniffling in a most unladylike way all through breakfast the next morning, until Lark checked her temperature and sent her back to bed with a dose of Rosethorn’s medicine and a cup of willowbark tea. Daja and Lark did the chores, while Briar went back and forth between the two patients, doling out medicines and liquids and enjoying the chance to boss his sisters around.

After midday, Daja went off to the forge to help Frostpine with armor repairs for the Duke’s Guard, but Kirel brought her back in the middle of the afternoon to report that the whole of Winding Circle had been stricken with a plague of mild flu. Half the novices and dedicates of every temple had gone to the healers, complaining of runny noses and headaches. Frostpine himself was afflicted, and had retired to the loft above the forge to groan dramatically.

“He said he wanted to die in peace,” Daja said, and started coughing into her fist. Seeing Lark’s worried look, she cleared her throat and rasped, “I’m all right, really.”

“Medicine and bed,” Lark told her firmly, ushering her inside, where Briar was waiting with the mugs already to hand. “Thank you for bringing her home,” she said to Kirel. “If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll give you some of Rosethorn’s medicine to bring back to Frostpine.”

“Thank you,” Kirel said feelingly. “The healers are saying this sickness isn’t deadly so much as annoying -- for the sick and their nurses. He’s having so much fun complaining that I might just keel over myself.”

After she’d sent Kirel on his way with supplies for his teacher and checked on her charges, Lark set off towards the Hub. She found Winding Circle much as Kirel had described it; the loomhouses and carpentry shops stood quiet, and even the normally-bustling kitchens seemed half-empty and forlorn. Thankfully, Gorse himself was untouched by disease. He greeted her with a grin and a bow as soon as she stepped into his domain and, hearing she had three sick children at home, plied her with so much food that he had to draft a novice to help her carry it all back to Discipline.

She thanked him warmly, then cast one last worried glance around the vast kitchens. “What will you do, with so few workers?” she asked.

Gorse looked grave, but not worried. Lark had no doubt that he would run the kitchens himself if need be. “Do not worry,” he said firmly. “We will manage.”

Arriving back at Discipline, Lark opened the front door just in time to see Briar jump out of the chair he’d been sitting in, as though caught doing something he shouldn’t. He fixed Lark with a bright smile, but he was too late; she’d seen him sitting slumped over, rubbing his knuckles into his forehead to fight a headache. And he was so pale!

“Oh, Briar,” she sighed. “Not you, too?”

“What are you talking about? I’m peachy,” he protested, then sneezed twice and gave up. “Muck and bed,” he sighed. “I know.”

* * *

By the end of the day Lark’s head was pounding, a sharp pain behind her eyes that kept time with her heart. Finding it impossible to sleep, she rose a few hours after midnight to make herself a cup of willowbark tea and look in on the children.

Tris’ fever had finally broken; she shivered and sniffled, but slept more deeply than she had in days. Little Bear had crept into her room and lay curled up beside the bed. He thumped his tail on the floor when he saw Lark, but didn't stir, and Lark found she didn't have the heart the chase him back downstairs. She fetched Tris an extra blanket, then moved across the hall to check on Daja, who had pulled the blankets over her head and seemed to be asleep despite the cough that broke from her every few minutes.

Briar tossed and turned in his nest of blankets on the floor, muttering darkly. He woke with a start when Lark touched a cool cloth to his forehead. "Oh, 's you," he croaked, squinting up at her. "Where is she? I can't find her -- 's not safe --" he broke off, coughing.

Lark's heart ached. She ran one hand through his hair, trying to soothe him. "She's all right," she told him gently. No need to ask who he meant. "Don't worry, she's well and safe and she'll be home soon."

"Good," he mumbled, and fell back asleep.

Sandry was still awake; Lark found her sitting with her back to the wall and the blankets pulled up around her shoulders, embroidering by the pale glow of her night-lamp. She made a face when she saw Lark and put the needle down. “I know I’ll hurt my eyes,” she said, echoing an admonishment she’d heard over and over from Lark and Rosethorn both. “But I couldn’t sleep, and I’m so bored, and I can’t focus on anything else.”

“It’s all right, dear. I understand.” Lark knelt next to the bed and pressed a hand to the girl’s forehead, but couldn’t tell if the heat she felt was from Sandry’s skin or her own. A chill ran through her and she sighed, tucking the blankets tighter around Sandry and wishing for the shawl she’d left in her room. “Is there anything you need?” she asked. Sandry shook her head. “All right. I know it’s difficult, but try and get some sleep if you can.”

“What about you?” Sandry demanded. “You need to sleep, too.”

Lark stood and kissed the top of her head. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s both of us do our best.”

* * *

She did manage to sleep for a few hours around dawn, only to wake with a harsh, prickling cough deep in her chest and what she was sure was a low but persistent fever. Every muscle in her body ached, but she dragged herself out of bed and managed to brew yet another pot of willowbark. After downing a cup herself, she brought one to each of the children, along with what breakfast she could convince them to eat and yet another dose of medicine.

The morning passed in a blur. Briar’s fever had gone down, but Sandry’s and Daja’s had risen. Lark spent what felt like days trudging up and down the stairs, fretting over each of them in turn, trying to soothe their restless misery with cool cloths and soft words that she could scarcely hear herself saying over the pounding in her head. It was only after midday had come and gone, with only Tris managing more than a few mouthfuls, that Lark realized she’d completely forgotten to eat anything herself.

She was staring queasily at the midday meal she’d set out for herself, resting her aching head on one hand as she inhaled the steam from yet another cup of tea, when she heard the front door open.

“Mila of the Grain and the Green Man preserve us all,” said Rosethorn. “I was only gone three days!”

“Rosie!” Lark stood and immediately had to grab onto the table as the world spun sickeningly around her. Rosethorn stood in the doorway, scowling and smudged with road-dust, the most beautiful thing Lark had ever seen. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and couldn’t tell whether they were from pain or relief. “I’m sorry, I know how you hate nursing, but --" She broke off, losing the rest of the sentence in a harsh cough.

“Sit,” Rosethorn ordered. Lark felt strong hands on her shoulders, guiding her back down into the chair. “Don’t move. You’re white as a sheet, and I will not have you fainting. The children are ill? They must be, or you wouldn’t have let yourself get to this state.”

Lark closed her eyes so she didn’t have to watch Rosethorn’s lovely face waver and spin. “Tris is on the mend,” she murmured, and lifted her sleeve to cover another fit of coughing. When she could breathe again, she went on, “I think Briar’s past the worst of it. Sandry and Daja --”

Rosethorn pressed one hand first to Lark’s forehead, then to her cheek. “I’ll see to Sandry and Daja,” she said grimly. “Then I’ll go over to Water and have a word with Sealwort. They couldn’t spare _anyone_ to help you?”

Lark turned into the rough, cool touch of the hand on her cheek -- she was far too congested to be able to smell anything, but she could perfectly imagine the mix of loam and grass-seed and stinging willowbark that clung to Rosethorn’s skin. Her thoughts were muddled, but the mention of Water stirred something in the fog of the fever. “I had meant to go and ask for a healer to come this afternoon,” she said, remembering.

Rosethorn sighed. “I’d be amazed if you could walk as far as the garden gate."

A soft sound made Lark open her eyes, in time to see Rosethorn turn, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing out of bed, my lad?” she demanded as Briar poked his head out of his room.

He was still pale and wan, his hair plastered to his forehead from the sweat of the fever, and he coughed weakly into one fist, but his smile when he saw Rosethorn could have lit the dreariest day in winter. “I thought I heard scolding,” he rasped. “Thought I might be dreamin’.”

“You should be,” said Rosethorn. “Turn right back around and go to sleep.” When he didn’t move, she raised an eyebrow. “That’s an order, boy. Or have you gone deaf in my absence?”

“I’m just glad to see you, is all,” Briar said. Rosethorn sighed in exasperation, but her lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Well, we’ll soon fix that. Bed. _Now_.”

Briar ducked his head and disappeared. Rosethorn turned back to Lark. "That goes for you, too."

“I… yes.” Lark rubbed at her temples, trying to ease the vicious pain behind her eyes. When she looked up, Rosethorn was watching her intently, her lovely lips pressed tight together and set halfway to a scowl.

Lark tried to smile. “I’m sorry, love,” she said, then had to stop, this time to muffle a yawn.

Rosethorn raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Sorry? Whatever for?”

“You must be exhausted,” Lark murmured. “I’m sure you wanted a quieter homecoming.”

Rosethorn reached for Lark’s hands, gathering them both into hers. “What I want is for you to rest and get well,” she said firmly. “And that means _only_ resting -- no worrying about the children, or about me. Healer’s orders. Can you get to bed on your own?”

“Yes, I think so.” It hurt to move, but Lark managed to get to her feet. With Rosethorn to hold onto, the dizziness wasn’t quite so bad, and crossing the few feet to her own door no longer seemed like trying to walk to Namorn. She collapsed onto her own bed and fell asleep halfway through a silent prayer of thanks to Mila of the Grain.

* * *

Lark woke from strange dreams of being unraveled to an intolerable itching pain deep in her chest. She coughed, and coughed, and couldn't stop. Gasping for air, she tried to sit up, suddenly terrified. She couldn't breathe --

Someone helped her up, steadying her with an arm around her shoulders. Rosethorn. It was Rosethorn pressing a cup into her hand and guiding it to her lips. She managed a few gulps, tasting lemons and bitter willow, and sighed in relief as the medicine soothed her throat.

There was another flavor on her tongue, the sharp and familiar bite of the mixture Rosethorn made to help with asthma attacks. That she was mixing it into her ordinary medicines meant she was worried -- more worried than she usually liked to let on.

"I'm all right," Lark rasped. Talking made her cough again, briefly this time. She finished the rest of the medicine and leaned back against Rosethorn's arm, exhausted. "I'm all right," she repeated, hoping that just saying it again would be enough to convince Rosethorn. "Rosie, I'm fine. I'm breathing fine."

"And you'll stay that way." Rosethorn took back the empty cup and slid off the bed, going to return it to the kitchen. Lark shivered, suddenly chilled without that solid warmth beside her.

"How are the children?" Lark asked as Rosethorn came back with another cup, this one of water.

"Tris was feeling well enough to beg me for permission to go stand up on the wall again tonight," Rosethorn answered as she settled on the edge of the bed. "Daja’s fever broke this afternoon, and Sandry’s will before morning. My boy will be back on his feet tomorrow, or I’ll know the reason why.” She paused, then added, "Of course, they aren't all worn out from trying to care for four other patients while they were getting sick."

There was anger in her voice, but it wasn't directed at Lark. She was probably upset with herself for leaving, and leaving Lark alone with the children, although she couldn't possibly have foreseen that she'd be needed.

Lark would tell Rosethorn how foolish she was being -- later, though, when her head didn't feel so much like it was about to split, and when she didn't feel so weak and shaky. For now, all she could manage was a soft _mmm-hmm_ as Rosethorn checked her pulse, then pressed the back of one hand to her forehead.

Rosethorn pursed her lips, clearly displeased with what she'd found, and made a soft, frustrated sound that Lark knew well, although it usually meant a new patch of crabgrass in the garden. A long moment lapsed in silence, as Rosethorn seemed to be deciding something.

Finally she reached out and took Lark's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Oh -- Rosie, I'll be all right. You don't have to stay, if you don't want to." Usually Rosethorn preferred to sleep alone. Lark, who woke often in the middle of the night craving the warmth and soft breathing of another person in her bed, treasured the nights Rosethorn spent with her but had never pushed for more than Rosethorn wanted to give.

"That isn't what I asked," Rosethorn said, half-teasing, though her eyes were grave. "Do you want me to?"

Lark was tired, and cold, and quickly losing the fight against her desire to curl up in her lover's arms and sleep for a year. "Yes," she admitted.

That was all Rosethorn needed. She slid further onto the bed, settling her arms around Lark as the blankets crept over to cover her, too. "And you'll sleep better if I'm here," she said, knowing it was true.

"Yes," Lark murmured, burying her face in Rosethorn's shoulder. "But you won't sleep."

"I wouldn't do much better in my own bed, lying awake worrying that you've stopped breathing," Rosethorn said wryly. "Now hush. I thought you knew better than to argue with healers."

Lark still felt wretched, but she sighed in contentment at the steady beat of Rosethorn's heart under her ear, at the knowledge that she was home and safe, that their children would soon be well, that all was right in her world. "I love you," she mumbled, already more than half asleep.

"I love you, too," Rosethorn said softly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Sweet dreams."


	2. alternate ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate ending. An extra for Tamora Pierce Femslash Week 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternate version of the last scene, which I started back when I was first writing this fic but had to put aside for various reasons. I pulled it out, dusted it off, and spruced it up a little as an extra for Femslash Week 2014. It's unbeta'd, so forgive the quality.
> 
> (I could probably write slight variations on the same Lark/Rosethorn cuddly sickfic until the heat death of the universe. I will almost definitely write another fluffy sickfic for the end of Femslash Week, so stay tuned, if you like that sort of thing.)

Lark woke to darkness, deeper and more still than when she’d gone to bed. Night, she thought muzzily -- she must have slept the day away, neglecting her work. She hadn’t done that since she’d been barely more than a girl in Khapik, dancing the long nights away with the women of her troupe. They had traded tumbling tricks for coins and sweet ale and kisses from strangers, until the sun came up and the dancers dragged themselves back to their airless rented rooms to sleep like the dead.

She had woken sore and battered on those days too, but never like this. A cold ache had settled over her entire body, weighing her down like a quilt made of lead. Her head felt stuffed with cotton, and every breath tickled at the back of her throat and deep in her chest, threatening to make her cough. She tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but it was no use.

With a sigh she hauled herself out of bed, taking the blanket with her and wrapping it around her shoulders. Outside it was summer, she knew, but she felt half-frozen. A cup of tea might help to warm her enough that she could rest.

Rosethorn sat at the kitchen table, absently scratching Little Bear’s head with one hand, writing by the glow of one of the stone lamps Tris and Daja had been learning to make. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said without looking up.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Lark said, surprised at how rough her own voice sounded. “I thought maybe some tea would help.”

“Well, sit. I’ll get it.” Rosethorn set her papers aside and busied herself with the kettle while Lark sank into a chair. Little Bear wandered over and draped himself across her feet with a sigh.

With the water on its way to boiling, Rosethorn returned and rested a hand against Lark’s forehead. She made a small ‘hmmph’ of displeasure, the same sound she made when she found a new patch of crabgrass in her garden. Without speaking she disappeared into her workroom, returning with an assortment of jars labeled in Briar’s neat hand.

“How are the children?” Lark asked, as she watched Rosethorn mix pinches of powder from each jar into a shallow bowl.

“Tris was feeling well enough to beg me for permission to go stand up on the wall again tonight,” Rosethorn said drily. “Daja’s fever broke this afternoon, and Sandry’s will before morning. My boy will be back on his feet tomorrow, or I’ll know the reason why.” She turned and smiled crookedly at Lark. “You’re the worst off in this house, and I’m afraid you’re in for an unpleasant day or two.”

“I’ll be all right,” Lark murmured. A chill crept up her spine, and she shivered, nearly dislodging Little Bear.

“There was never any doubt of that. Here -- this will bring that fever down, and help you sleep.” Rosethorn pressed a mug into Lark’s hands. Instead of going back to her papers, Rosethorn stayed where she was, letting Lark lean against her. “Crane will have a cure for this strain of flu in a day or two, but I doubt any of you will need it. That’s the devilish thing about these smaller sicknesses -- they burn themselves out so fast, there’s hardly any good to be done by finding a specific cure, when you can do as much with willowbark and water...”

Lark listened to Rosethorn talk about the particulars of Crane’s work without really hearing the words, sipping slowly from the mug she held. The tea was as sweet as Rosethorn could make it, but not quite sweet enough to hide the bitter taste of the medicines she’d mixed in. In that moment, it tasted better than Lark could have imagined anything could. Though she knew that not even Rosethorn’s medicines worked instantly, she imagined she could already breathe a little easier.

“There was word in Summersea of a plague at Winding Circle,” Rosethorn said abruptly. Something in her voice, almost a tremor, made Lark look up at her. Rosethorn gave her a half-smile and draped an arm around her shoulders, reassuring. With her ordinary brusqueness she added,“Of course, the idiot man I talked to at Urda’s House left out that it was a plague of influenza. I should go back down there and roast him over a slow fire for fear-mongering.”

“Later,” Lark rasped. In her fog of exhaustion, the thought of Rosethorn going anywhere was unbearable. She needed Rosethorn's solid, comforting warmth like -- well, like a plant needed sunlight. Surely Rosie would understand that. She couldn't seem to find the words to explain that, though, so instead she croaked, "Stay. Please."

"Of course I didn't mean right now," Rosethorn said drily. "There will be plenty of time for that when you're feeling better -- and anyway, it's nearly midnight."

Lark mumbled agreement. The tea and Rosethorn's touch had warmed her clear through and eased the vicious pounding in her head. Her eyes had drifted closed, and she was already more than half asleep when Rosethorn squeezed her shoulder, shaking her a little. "Come on. It's back to bed with you, sleepy bird. That dose hasn't even kicked in yet, and you won't thank me if I let you sleep all night in that chair."

The next thing Lark knew, she was lying down, curled up in her own bed while Rosethorn sat on the edge of the mattress, two fingers pressed to the inside of her wrist to feel her pulse. Satisfied, Rosethorn brushed the damp curls back from Lark's forehead and, in a gesture that would have stunned the greater part of Winding Circle, pressed a kiss to her temple.

Lark's own exhaustion and the herbs in the tea were swiftly dragging her down into darkness, but she struggled to stay awake long enough to mumble, "Love you."

The last thing she heard as she drifted off was Rosethorn's sigh of "I love you, too."


End file.
